


One-All

by swapcats



Series: shitty girlfriend AU [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One summer, you get a postcard from her. It's a battered thing with a photo of the Trevi Fountain under all the creases, though the postmark says it was sent from France; there's nothing on the back, nothing beyond the scrawl that makes up your address and a hastily scribbled <i>Annie</i>. You mean to throw it out but it ends up as a bookmark, eventually forgotten once the story draws to a close.</p><p>*</p><p>(Mikasa and Annie make an unspoken contest out of not having feelings and barely even realise when they mess up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-All

     You're halfway through your second year of university when you meet her. Most of her lectures are on the other campus and you never do find out what her major is, but she's a friend of a friend, or at least an acquaintance. It's not like any of the hook-ups you hear so much about in the back of seminars; no one's tipsy, and neither of you bother reflecting on it after the fact. You certainly don't divulge the information to anyone else. Armin drags you along to a study group that's an excuse for socialising, and there she is, squished into the corner of the sofa, as bored as you are.

 

     You meet her eye and there's something like an understanding there.

 

     You excuse yourself early—you've practise in the morning, and everyone accepts your abrupt departure even when you don't specify what you're practising for. You wait three, four minutes and then there she is, hood pulled up over the back of her head to protect her ears from the cold.

 

     “Hi,” she says, hands in her pockets.

 

     She leaves halfway through the night and you text Armin the next morning, just to make sure you've got the right name. _Annie Leonhardt_ , he replies, and you think that's what she told you, if she told you anything at all.

 

     It works. She never turns up out of the blue, and when you tell her _not now_ she doesn't bother texting back. There are some days when you think you might like having your arm twisted, but you're not about to jeopardise the ease of it all on a whim. Annie never stays the night, never asks to use your shower. Once it's over and you've straightened the bedsheets back out, pushed the desk back into place, it's like she was never there. Still, you don't know how you would've got through the stress of finals without her.

 

     She disappears for a few years after that. She doesn't say goodbye, but why would she? After a few months, Armin mentions something about her fighting her way through a martial arts contest, but you never practised the same styles as her and so you pay him no heed. One summer, you get a postcard from her. It's a battered thing with a photo of the Trevi Fountain under all the creases, though the postmark says it was sent from France; there's nothing on the back, nothing beyond the scrawl that makes up your address and a hastily scribbled _Annie_. You mean to throw it out but it ends up as a bookmark, eventually forgotten once the story draws to a close.

 

     That's all you hear from or of her until one day, rumour has it that she's back in town. And by rumour, you mean that Eren tells you when he has lunch with her; he gives you a few other arbitrary details but you're a little distracted by glancing over at the counter where your phone isn't lighting up. It takes a week, by which time you've more or less forgotten about the whole ordeal, but a text comes your way. _Hi_ , it says. She's changed her phone, or at least her number, and you reply with _Annie?_ It's not really a question, there are no doubts in your mind, but you don't know what else to say.

 

     _Are you busy?_

 

Forty-five minutes later, there's a single knock at your front door. You don't rush to answer it, but you don't make a point of dawdling, either. You slide the latch and pull the door to, expecting this to be easy; the fact that you hesitate doesn't mean that it isn't. You just need a moment to take her in. It's been, what—two and a half years since you last saw her? You're allowed to just _look_ at her, you're allowed to stare; she's doing the same, leaving you both on even footing.

 

     Two and a half years isn't enough to make a real impact and that's what's bothering you. Something about her's changed, even you can tell that much, but you can't put your finger on it.

 

     Annie reaches out, catching the edge of your scarf between two fingers and a thumb.

 

     “Ackerman,” she says. “Still wearing this?”

 

     “It's winter,” you say, not looking at her fingers. It's winter and heating is expensive, but she doesn't care about that.

 

     You become overly aware that you're separated by little more than a door frame. It's less of a barrier than the one in your mind, for all it counts; your breath mingles in the air with hers, a puff of a cloud lingering between you, and she's got a hoodie on under her jacket, just like always. This time, you reach out. You grab one of the drawstrings, tugging on it, and the way her hood caves in on itself at the back of her neck annoys her enough to take a step forward. You take one back and then turn, striding into the living room-slash-kitchen.

 

     The front door quietly clicks closed behind Annie and for a moment, you wonder what you should do. You're out of practise and you don't know if it's presumptuous to fall back into old routines, so you stare at the glasses on the counter, wondering if you should ask if she wants a drink. Wondering if you should ask what she's been doing and why she's back, wondering—

 

     Annie places a hand on your hip. Her fingers rest against the curve of your hip like they've never left that spot, giving you all the encouragement you need to turn around. The edge of the worktop presses a line along the small of your back and Annie very carefully unwinds your scarf from around your neck, eyes on the line of your jaw all the while. The fact that she dares to do it gives her all the permission she needs. The chill of room creeps along your throat and down your collar, and you wait until the scarf's stowed safely on the worktop before moving.

 

     “It's been a while,” she says, still not meeting your eyes.

 

     You press your hands to her cheeks, fingertips meeting cold skin, grazing along the line of her jaw. She tilts her head up at your urging. “A while,” you agree, either pulling her lips to yours or guiding her as she draws closer.

 

     So much for worn routines. Something flares in the pit of your stomach and your mind snaps back to three years ago; Annie's got her fingers on the waist of your pants and you're not bothering with her hoodie. Your hands slide under it, nails raking across her stomach, and it doesn't _feel_ like she's been gone for so long; there's no rush in it. It's frustrating how easy this all is, how you don't have to think; you catch her lower lip between your teeth, fingers slipping down to the spot where her pants don't quite touch the dip of her hipbone, desperate to search out each and every little thing that's changed over the past few years.

 

     Nothing's changed. _Nothing_. Try as you might, everything's the way it's always been. Annie's as hard to read as ever, even when she's grasping at the edge of the counter, bucking her hips as she tangles her fingers in your hair. You bury your face in her neck, let her rake angry red lines down your back and forget all about the cold, but she's the same as ever, she's still _Annie_ ; the two of you work each other beyond exhaustion and she's still out of reach.

 

*

 

     Armin stops over before work the next morning, a large coffee in each hand.

 

     “Did you hear?” he starts, and you know exactly where it's going. You don't interrupt him, though; you keep your eyes on him over the edge of the coffee cup and he assumes he's piqued your interest. “Annie's back in town.”

 

     You take a long sip and say, “I saw her last night.”

 

     “Oh! Do you know where she's working? I only heard that she has a job, but no one seems to know where... ” he asks, hopefully.

 

     “She didn't say,” you tell him.

 

     Armin frowns. “What _do_ you two talk about?”

 

     “Nothing much,” you admit.

 

     Annie comes over on Thursday night, Saturday evening and Monday morning. She's back again on Wednesday, and it's not like you had Friday-night plans, anyway. You start to think she's doing it on purpose—coming over as often as she can without being there every day. Or maybe you're imagining patterns where there are none, trying to read something into it that isn't there. It's been a while, after all, and it's hardly as if you're in any rush to ignore her texts. Twice, you even get as far as the bedroom.

 

     One evening there's a knock at the door and you realise you haven't seen Annie in two days. You pick up your phone as you go to answer it, checking for any missed messages—not that Annie would ever come over without strict permission, there's always been that unspoken agreement between you. Eren turning up out of the blue at this sort of time isn't unheard of, so you tuck your empty phone into your back pocket and open the door.

 

     “Hi,” Annie says, leaning against the door frame. “I need somewhere to stay.”

 

     You stare at her, not frowning. Not angry, exactly—a little confused, if anything. It's as if you've been trapped in an illusion of control, of routine, and Annie's broken the spell by turning up when she pleases. When you keep staring at her, she carries on speaking. Sighing first, like explaining herself is some great ordeal.

 

     “The lease on my apartment doesn't start for a week and I can't get any sleep at the hotel,” she says, making a face that screams of thin walls. “It's too cold to sleep in the car.”

 

     She tilts her head towards the street, gesturing to where she's parked outside. From what you can see, every last thing she owns in crammed into her car; even without the November chill in the air you doubt she'd be able to find the space to sleep. The engine's still running, which makes you feel the tiniest bit better about all this. Annie isn't presumptuous enough to assume you're going to let her in and you can't be her only option.

 

     It'd be easy to say no, sorry—your place isn't the biggest in the world and you've never let her sleep over before, let alone for a week. But if it isn't a big deal for Annie then why should it be a big deal for you?

 

     “Alright,” you say, rummaging around the bowl of keys by the door. You dig out the set to the garage halfway down the street that you've never used but is included in the rent and throw them to her. “There's too much in your car to park out front.”

 

     Annie looks down at the tag on the keys, blinks at the number _23_ and you point vaguely down the street. “... thanks,” she says, hopping off the front step and heading to her car.

 

     All the heat escapes your place as you wait for her to lock her car away, but for some reason, you can't bring yourself to close the door. Or rather, you don't want to have to go through the whole process of answering the door and having her catch you off-guard again. It takes a handful of minutes to walk from the garages and she's back at your place within ten, rucksack slung over her shoulder. She pauses in the doorway for a split-second, looks as though she might say something, but only hums flatly as she steps into the living area.

 

     She goes straight for the sofa, dropping her bag against one of the arms.

 

     “I have a bed,” you point out, and she doesn't say anything, not at first. She busies herself with unzipping her rucksack, rummaging around for whatever it is she's looking for. A distraction, most likely.

 

     By the time she says, “That would be weird,” you've already realised what an absurd thing it was to suggest. You might've shared a bed before but you've never _slept_ together; you can't expect either of you to suddenly be comfortable with that sort of arrangement.

 

     “I use the shower at seven-fifteen,” you tell her. “... goodnight.”

 

     Annie just grunts, unfurling her sleeping bag as you retreat to your room.

 

     Three days go by and it's almost as though Annie's not there. The only indication that she's taking up space on your sofa is the sound of the shower running at six-thirty and the front door clicking closed minutes before your alarm goes off. In the evenings, you've already retired to your bedroom by the time Annie returns from doing whatever it is she does, and for all that she _almost_ isn't there, you do a terrible job of not thinking about the way she's on the other side of the wall while you're smothered in blankets.

 

     You bite on your lower lip, hand slipping down between your thighs. You tell yourself that it's fine; Annie isn't going to walk in, because then it would be like she was bartering for her lodgings. Annie isn't going to walk in, but that doesn't stop you from imagining that she does.

 

     On Saturday morning, Annie finally slips up. Whatever alarm she'd been relying on doesn't go off because – you assume – it isn't a work day, and she's still sleeping when you step into the kitchen. She's cocooned in her sleeping bag, and all you can see of her is a few loose strands of blonde hair poking out of her hood. Quietly, you set about making a few slices of toast to fuel you for your usual Saturday morning run.

 

     The buttery knife you've used clatters in the sink and Annie doesn't stir. After that, you don't make as much of an effort to eat quietly as you might've, eyes on Annie all the while, watching her slowly toss and turn herself awake—realising, suddenly, that running off now would be like admitting to _something_ you can't quite put your finger on.

 

     She stretches out, pushing herself up into something resembling a sitting position and says, “Going for a run?”

 

     You nod. You could leave it at that, now that pleasantries are out the way, but you hear yourself saying, “Ten miles. What to come?” before regaining control over your mouth.

 

     In the same way that you could've left, Annie could just slump down on the sofa and fall back to sleep, but at some point, every thing you said to one another suddenly had a challenge laced into it.

 

     “Alright,” she says, listlessly kicking the sleeping bag off. Annie reaches for her bag, picks out what she needs and pauses with her fingers around the hem of her hoodie. Changing in front of you shouldn't be a big deal. It shouldn't matter. And yet, for some reason, it _does_. She glances at you like she wants to explain herself, sets her jaw and carries her running clothes off to the bathroom without a word. You stick another slice of bread in the toaster, pushing it into her mouth when she steps out of the bathroom, blocking the way to your running shoes.

 

     A handful of minutes later and you're the only ones out in the streets. The rest of the town's making the most of their Saturday morning, no doubt still curled up in bed, sleeping. “This way,” you say to Annie, heading off. She follows for two footsteps and then she's at your side. You quicken the pace and she catches up without trying; she slows down and so do you, making it seem incidental all the while.

 

     A mile in, you give up and glance at her. She looks back and barely has to do anything other than lift her brow—the two of you push off in earnest and set about really testing yourselves. Four miles in and your breathing's coming a little harder. You can see Annie out the corner of your eye all the while, never overtaking you, never falling back, and when you hit the hill that winds around to the highest point in the town your thighs really start burning. But you don't let yourself look down, don't fix your eyes on your feet to avoid having to see the path ahead. You keep your head up, watching the road become steeper and steeper until you've finally conquered it.

 

     It's a nice view, you guess. If you're into rows upon rows of endless buildings. Neither of you stop, but you spent a moment running on the spot, staring at the sun that's straining to break through the cloud cover. “What are you doing here?” you ask, words spaced out by the rhythm of your breathing. “Armin says you have a job.”

 

     Annie sets off back down the hill, assuming you're heading back the way you came.

 

     “... temping,” Annie eventually says, shrugging her shoulders as her arm swing. “Entering data—it's easy.”

 

     You nod. It's not that you think Annie doesn't want anything out of life, but some things – the mediocre things, the things she _has_ to do – are only ever going to be rewarding to her if they're easy. She has other things to focus on, other areas to push herself in. You glance at her arms, her legs—you've _felt_ all the taut muscles in her body before, but this is a little different.

 

     “I heard you were competing,” you say.

 

     “I won,” she replies, knowing you didn't doubt that. “Used up the money travelling, though. Dad wanted me to come back here.”

 

     “Hm.”

 

     With two miles left to go, Annie says, “What _do_ you do?” as though it's only just occurred to her that she doesn't know.

 

     “I work for a publishing company,” you say, and go as far as to offer up a few more details. “Editing, translating.”

 

     This is the point where most people break out into _oooooooh_ s,wanting to know what you've worked on, but Annie only grunts in acknowledgement. She didn't know and now she does, it's as simple as that.

 

     You're home in what feels like no time at all. You look down at your watch and realise you've beaten your best time by a solid three minutes. You raise your eyebrows, surprised, mean to tell Annie but hold your tongue. She's done it faster than this before, for all you know; there's no need to get excited about it. Annie stretches out and graciously says, “Shower first.”

 

     You do just that, wondering how bad an idea it would be to drag her in there with you. It might be November but there's still sweat on her skin, her nose and cheeks have turned red—it'd be a terrible idea, you realise. Strangely enough, it doesn't leave you as frustrated as it might've; the beat of hot water against your body drags all the tension away with it, and you find that the run in and of itself was enough. You haven't pushed yourself like that in a long time and you barely realised you were doing it.

 

     Annie disappears for the rest of the day and doesn't make the mistake of sleeping in on Sunday. Monday comes and you hear the shower come to life at half-six, but it isn't followed by the sound of the front door closing. More likely than not, you drifted back to sleep and missed it. You shower at the same time as always, dress in your bedroom, but when you head into the kitchen there's Annie, sat cross-legged on the sofa, playing with her phone.

 

     “I made you breakfast,” she says, not looking up. You glance at the counter and there's a box of cereal unceremoniously placed in the middle, a bowl standing beside it. You find that you can't tell whether she's joking or not, but you _like_ cereal. You're not about to turn it down in favour of spiting her mocking advances.

 

     A rush of cereal chimes in the bowl and you end up having to get your own milk, spoon and juice, anyway. You eat in slow bites, staring at Annie while she's too absorbed in what it is she's playing on her phone to notice you. “I teach at that dojo,” she says, and for a moment you almost think she's talking to her phone. “The one by the station—Wednesdays and Sundays.”

 

     You've no idea what she wants you to do with that information, but you notice that she's shivering in her hoodie, so you cross the kitchen and click on the heating.

 

     “It's even easier than office work,” she says, finally looking up. She doesn't make the effort of rolling her eyes.

 

     “Why?” you ask, belatedly. Teaching doesn't seem to be her style, not exactly—Annie isn't the sort to have energy and attention to spare for those below her. “For the satisfaction of knocking down anyone who underestimates you?”

 

     Looking at Annie, that's bound to be most people. She rolls her shoulders back, gets to her feet, and like always, you find yourself looking down at her.

 

     “I guess...” she says, shrugging. She puts a hand on the counter, tapping the cereal box. “They let me practise there.”

 

     Not a bad deal, then. You dip your spoon in the bowl but only manage to scoop up milk. You turn to the sink to rinse it out and Annie keeps on talking.

 

     “I can move into my new place tomorrow. So...” she says, still fiddling with the cereal box. When she speaks next, you can hear the surge of a shrug in her voice. “Thanks.”

 

     You spend a little longer than you need to washing the bowl. You turn around and Annie's _right there_ , and all at once you understand why she went to such lengths to be out of the house of a morning. Somebody messes up, because the next thing you know you've got your hands on her cheeks and you're kissing her. Annie hooks her fingers in your belt loops and you've still got twenty minutes before you need to leave, and what does it matter anymore, she'll only be here for one more night—

 

     But somehow, somehow, you both come to your senses in the same moment. Annie lets out a noise that'd be a laugh, if it wasn't so dry, and says, “Can't be late.”

 

     “Can't be late,” you agree, but you know she doesn't care about her office job.

 

     Outside, the morning is clear and bright, but you're left bundling your gloved hands into your pockets regardless. You keep your head low, nose pressing against your scarf, mouth hidden by it. Every so often you'll find yourself running your tongue over your lips, distracted by a feeling you can't quite place.

 

     Halfway into the day you realise that you've never _just_ kissed her before. That's all it is; you're only left anxious because you're used to reaching a resolution.

 

*

 

     It's not as though you're going back to an empty house. Even when Annie was there she wasn't really _there_ , but you find yourself lingering aimlessly once you're done with work for the day. Best to do something productive, you tell yourself; a run wouldn't go amiss right now and there are a few new books you've been meaning to get a start on. You turn your phone over and over in your pocket as you finally resign yourself to walking home, but find yourself thinking about Annie's car, full to the brim with everything she owns.

 

     _Need any help_?

 

     You're on your doorstep when she replies. _Alright._ It takes her five whole minutes to realise that you have no idea where she is. You let out a short, sharp breath of a laugh through your nose when she texts you the address, tacking on _Hurry up or don't bother_ to the end.

 

     Annie's new apartment isn't in the worst part of town. It's not in the best part, either, but temping's left her far from living in squalor. There are a handful of takeaways in the street and a supermarket not much further down, and you doubt Annie's after much in the way of night life.

 

     It doesn't look as though Annie's been there for long. The windows of her car are still blocked by boxes and black bags masking suspicious angular items, and there seems to be a new addition to it all—there's a sofa perched on the edge of the pavement.

 

     “Where did you get that?” you ask by way of greeting.

 

     “Charity shop,” she replies, opening the boot of her car. Another half a dozen boxes spring into the cold, gasping for air. “Boxes first.”

 

     Annie scoops up two in her arms and so you do the same, letting her lean her boxes against yours while she frees her arm to lock the car back up. Her apartment’s on the fifth floor and she heads to the stairs without apology or explanation; a glance across the stairwell tells you that the lift's out of order. Perfect timing, you think, taking the stairs two at a time because Annie does. Her apartment isn't terribly big but doesn't need to be. There's more of a distinction between the box of a kitchen and the living area than at your place and it's not like Annie needs anything more than a single bedroom. There's no furniture to be found anywhere in the apartment and you don't ask what she's doing about a bed.

 

     You place the boxes down, filling the empty space, and head back down for more. By the time you're on your fifth trek up there neither of you are tackling the stairs two at a time; you trundle up, breathing heavily, setting the boxes down as close to the door as you can, stretching out your arms before heading back down. Two runs later and you've more or less got everything up to her apartment—Annie parks up her car and you stand on the pavement, glaring at the sofa. You'd suggest leaving it in the lobby until the lift's working again but if she's not exhausted yet, neither are you.

 

     “This is ridiculous,” Annie says, frowning more than usual. You're trapped in your third corner and you've only tackled four of them.

 

     “Leave it here then,” you say dryly, trying to hoist the sofa up and over the banister. It does no good; Annie's five steps above you and it's stuck at an awkward angle. “See how you like sitting on boxes.”

 

     Annie takes all her frustrations out on you in the form of a glower and you look to the side, huffing a laugh into the creases of your scarf. Clicking her tongue, Annie bends her knees and gives the sofa a great _lift_ , pulling it free. You swear she almost, almost looks pleased with herself.

 

     The two of you get the sofa through her front door moments before your arms decided to wrench themselves free of their sockets. Annie closes the door behind you both, which is something like an invitation, and you stand there for a moment, relishing in the fact that your hands are wonderfully empty. Annie busies herself with shoving the sofa into place, arranging it in front of a stack of boxes. One of the black bags turns out to have a TV stowed away inside and she fumbles with the leads for a few minutes, not getting a picture until she thwacks the side a good three times.

 

     That done, she moves to hunt out something else, and then seems to remember you're there. She blinks at you, stepping over a box until she's stood before you—why else would she keep you around once the boxes were all moved? You put your hands on her hips and pull her close; you're rewarded with a sharp, sudden reminder of how much your arms ache, how much _all_ of you aches. You can't make it any worse on yourself, and you're already imagining how much your back's going to scream as you lean down to kiss her.

 

     Annie kisses back, lazily. She doesn't bother lifting her arms, doesn't wrap her fingers around your jacket or pull you any closer. “I'm tired,” she murmurs, kissing you once more for good measure, before stepping away and flinging herself on the sofa.

 

     It doesn't sound like a goodbye, not exactly—but then again, you haven't shared many of those with Annie. Usually, one of you leaves without a word, and it shouldn't be any different now. But you find yourself lingering, pulling out your phone as if checking the time is going to buy you minutes of distraction—18:23. Plenty of time for the excitement of shopping. Annie flicks on the TV and begins tearing through the channels and you wonder if you need to make some sort of excuse.

 

     But then she looks over the back of the sofa and says, “This film's awful.” You try convincing yourself that you only imagined her glancing at the empty seat next to her as her attention slid back to the television, but honestly, a sofa's never looked so tempting. Annie owes you, both for letting her take up space on your sofa and helping lug her things up, and a few minute spent sitting down seems like a perfect payment.

 

     Light from the TV flashes against your face and the corner of your mouth tugs downwards. “It is,” you agree, but that doesn't stop the two of you from watching it.

 

     Halfway through, you stop ignoring the way Annie keeps staring at you out the corner of her eye. “What is it?” you ask, voice a little tight, as though you're actually invested in the film and she's disturbing you.

 

     “Nothing,” she says, but after a moment says, “... are you cold?”

 

     A little. Now that you're no longer lugging boxes and sofas around your body's managed to cool down. The apartment's a little draughty but you don't notice a chill until Annie points it out.

 

     “Put the heating on if you're cold,” you say. She doesn't move and you sigh. “You don't know how the heating works, do you?”

 

     Annie swivels on the sofa, about to say something biting, you're sure, but then someone dies on-screen and from the way the crowd cheers you're going to go ahead and assume you weren't supposed to like him. “Whatever,” Annie says, falling back down between the arm and the back of the sofa. She seems to sink into it, smaller than ever, and all you can think about is how cold it suddenly is, how sore your muscles still are.

 

     Annie brings it on herself. Doesn't leave you with any other choice, really. You close the few inches there are to close between you, falling down roughly against her. She lets out a grunt and tries shoving you off, but you grab her wrist and slide under her arm, falling slack against her chest. “... Ackerman,” she says, warning you, and when you don't move, huffs, not willing to be the one to make any sort of deal out of this.

 

     You smile because she can't see you, victorious. You put a hand on her stomach, threadbare hoodie under your fingers, and she tries tugging on your scarf to frustrate you, but just ends up with her hand placed against the back of your head.

 

*

 

     Things go back to normal, only now you're not limited to your own place. _Want to come over_? she asks one evening, and the lift's up and running when you don't need it to be. Nothing changes, not really. Once or twice you might stay after the fact and order, as Annie puts it, shitty Chinese, but that's just good sense. You don't want to be starving on the way home. Annie turns up unannounced one morning, and before you can tell her that you have to leave for work in fifteen minutes, there's no time—and isn't she supposed to text first? she says, “Don't worry. I didn't have time to go shopping.”

 

     She marches into your kitchen and helps herself to a few slices of toast.

 

     “There are cafés and bakeries on every corner, Annie,” you tell her, “You didn't need to come here.”

 

     Annie shrugs, folding a slice of toast in half and tearing a chunk off with her teeth. Your words weren't as hard as they could've been and she knows it.

 

     “This is free,” she points out, cramming the last of the toast into her mouth and slamming the door behind her.

 

     Later that week, you find yourself at the dojo where she works. You're not trying to get her back for invading your space, not entirely—more than anything, you're curious. You know Annie's focused on one thing and one thing alone, and you want to see exactly what she has to show for the complete lack of commitment to every other aspect of her life.

 

     The dojo's more of a draughty room than anything else. You're wearing sports gear to at least look the part, but you keep your coat and scarf on, making yourself far from inconspicuous. It looks like most of the class have turned up before Annie, and one man tries engaging you in conversation. He asks if you're new here—you nod and he says that he is too, but is quick to point out that he's trained elsewhere in the past. He's wearing a purple belt with a white stripe running through it and seems to think he knows something about fighting because of it; he says he heard this new instructor is something else, but he's sceptical until proven otherwise.

 

     “I'm just here to observe,” you say, watching the others stretch out in all the wrong ways.

 

     “It's not for everyone,” he says, nodding wisely. “You'll have to see what you think.”

 

     Annie comes in and a handful of the people there don't seem to realise that she's the instructor. She catches sight of you and doesn't nod, doesn't blink; she just turns to the class, drops her bag on the floor, and waits for everyone to realise who she is. You take a seat on one of the low benches running the length of the room, and it takes a good minute, but the room finally falls quiet.

 

     “Warm-up,” Annie says, and the room's divided between people who know better than to question her and people who are still going _wait, that's the instructor—?_ When a few people seem to be rooted to the spot, she repeats herself, letting them know it wasn't a suggestion. “ _Warm-up._ ”

 

     What follows is twenty minutes of the most gruelling warm-up that you've ever witnessed. The class is switching from star jumps to push ups before they've even acknowledged how much their calves ache from the sprints they'd done, and by the end of it they're drenched in sweat, looking ready to go home, while Annie stands in the middle, arms folded across her chest.

 

     The rest of the class isn't that impressive. To you, at least; everyone Annie's training keeps staring at her in awe, as though they've never seen a five foot nothing woman fling a grown man over her shoulder before. She runs through basic techniques, executes them flawlessly, of course, but it's like watching a painter attack a child's colouring book with blunt crayons.

 

     An hour and a half later and Annie unceremoniously tells everyone to go change. The majority of the class looks as though they want to die and around half of them seem happy about it. Annie turns to you once the dojo's empty and says, “Think you can do any better than them?” It's almost not worth rising to. Almost.

 

     You unbutton your coat, lay it out on the bench and carefully place your scarf atop it. The class has helped to banish some of the cold and you don't bother with a warm-up; it's hardly as though Annie's had a halfway decent one. The two of you stand facing each other for a long moment, learning what you can from your respective stances, but you're not going to know anything for certain until you start moving.

 

     It takes you twenty seconds to realise that you've underestimated her. In spite of all you know of her victories, in spite of what you've seen today, you still went ahead and wrote her off—and yet here Annie is, winding around you in a way that's far from effortless, though she makes it seem as though every step comes with ease. You step back and apologise for doubting her by way of giving it your all. You're well matched; too well matched, maybe. Victory is going to be a matter of chance, not skill.

 

     She deflects your punches and you side-step her kicks, and it doesn't take long until you can feel the blood pounding through your burning veins. The both of you land as many blows as you avoid; bruises are already blossoming across your ribs and there's blood on your knuckles where her nose is bleeding. You're in sync, both striving for the same goal; suddenly, every other minute you've spent with her feels like a waste. You've been close before but it was nothing like this, _this_ is how you should both be really pushing each other.

 

     And just as Annie staggers back, one eye twisted shut, you pull your arm back to strike again and she catches you out. She kicks your feet out from beneath you, ankle throbbing, and you land hard, jolts running up from your elbows. But it's not over yet, far from it; you're ready when she rushes down after you, catching her fists when she swings out, keeping you pinned with her hips.

 

     All it takes is a headbutt to make her flinch, and then you're pushing forward, slamming her down onto her back, forearm pressed across her collarbone and—

 

     And a group of people who have finished changing break out into applause behind you.

 

     Slowly, you force your muscles to relax and break away from her. Annie doesn't waste any time in knocking you back down and counting herself the victor, and you tell yourself that you let it happen because she can't lose her first fight in front of her new class. Satisfied, she gets to her feet, offers out her hand and helps you to your feet. She pulls you close, jostling you with her shoulder as she passes to pick up her bag, murmuring, “I win,” as she goes.

 

*

 

     Sasha drags you out Christmas shopping. You bought Eren and Armin's gifts weeks ago, but you go along to keep her company. She insists that you need to be more festive, and you dryly tell her that at least your scarf suits the season. There's nothing you _need_ to buy, but you find yourself gravitating towards a rack of hoodies. Thick, soft hoodies that haven't been worn to death.

 

     A few days later, you text Annie. _Come over_ , you say, and she doesn't reply, but twenty minutes pass and then her short, sharp knock is gracing your front door. You open the door and return to what you were doing—curled on the sofa with a book, you see Annie uselessly hovering in the middle of the living area and leave her in the dark for a few more seconds.

 

     “On the worktop,” you say, and her head snaps around. “In the bag.”

 

     Try as you might, you can't keep your eyes fixed on your book as Annie crinkles the plastic bag far more than she needs to. She shakes the hoodie out, holding it in front of her as though she doesn't have the first idea what to do with it. You can only see the side of her face but her expression hasn't changed, though she keeps staring at the hoodie far harder than is called for. Sighing, you drop the book onto the sofa and walk over to her, reclaiming the hoodie.

 

     Annie scowls, but does you the favour of not pointing out that Christmas isn't for another week. You tug on the hem of her old, worn hoodie and slowly, without breaking eye contact, she lifts her arms, letting you pull it up and over her head. Her t-shirt's pulled up a little in the process and you don't miss the way goosebumps break out across her stomach. It's cold in the kitchen and it'd be cruel to leave her in just a t-shirt for any more than a few seconds, but you do it anyway.

 

     Annie shakes her hair out of her eyes once you've got the hoodie on, looks down and tugs at the drawstrings. “I can buy my own clothes,” she says, slipping her hands into the pocket at the front, rocking forward on her tiptoes to kiss you. “... is this why you called me here?”

 

     “It is,” you say, and at the time, you delude yourself into thinking you mean it.

 

     An hour later and neither of you have use for a hoodie. It's on the floor, somewhere, scattered like your thoughts. It's warmer in the bedroom but that's not why you dragged Annie in there – why she dragged you in there – not the whole reason, at least. The soles of your feet keep sliding against the bedsheets, knees bending as Annie works her mouth between your legs. She keeps trying to push you over the edge, you can _feel_ it, can feel all the heat in the world on the tip of her tongue, but you're a stubborn creature. You keep tensing up, rocking your hips away from her, twisting your fingers in the bedsheets, willing yourself to just hold on a little longer. And it's not that you don't want it, it's just—

 

     “What's wrong?” Annie asks, breaking her mouth away.

 

     “Nothing,” you reply, arching your hips back towards her mouth. She only frowns. You loosen your grasp on the bedsheets, one hand pressing to the back of her head, trembling fingers threading through her hair. “... I was watching you.”

 

     You expect her to laugh. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches into something that isn't quite a smirk; your stomach twists and you regret saying anything, because when she presses her mouth back against you, she doesn't take her eyes off yours.

 

     You don't look away. You don't dare to. The tips of your ears are burning red but while she's looking at you, you aren't going to look away.

 

     The bed gives out a familiar creak when you both finally topple down on it for good. You catch your breath and all the heat you've built up rushes out of you, leaving you shivering with the cold. Without putting any thought into it, you reach down, reclaim the duvet from the floor and throw it over the both of you. Annie lies there for three, maybe four seconds, then abruptly sits upright, only hesitating to leave the bed when she's rudely reminded that winter exists.

 

     “It's late,” you say.

 

     “Exactly.” She misunderstands, throwing one leg over the side of the bed.

 

     “It's _late_ ,” you try again, and when she lets out a huff of irritation, you grab her by the elbow, tugging her back.

 

     Annie falls down, head hitting the pillow you never sleep on, and in the dim light that your eyes have adjusted to, now that you're not seeing stars, you see her turn to you, frowning.

 

     “It's late,” she points out.

 

     “Exactly,” you say, rolling onto your side, back to her. You nestle comfortably against the pillow and you can practically hear the confusion rattling between Annie's temples. Eventually, she decides that if you're alright with this, then she is too. Besides, it's threatening to snow outside; she doesn't want to venture outside, not when there's a whole half of the bed being offered up to her.

 

     Annie rolls onto her side, back to yours. You smile into your pillow, tired eyes fixed on that alarm clock. 01:03. The numbers blur as you blink yourself to sleep, and just like that it's 02:47. It takes you a moment to realise that you haven't simply stirred—the blame for that rests on Annie. She's tossing and turning next to you, murmuring something that doesn't qualify as nonsense, and after a moment of silence, she throws herself against your back.

 

     Grumbling, she slip an arm over the duvet, wrapping you tighter in it, nose bumping the corner of your jaw.

 

     That smile from before hasn't faded. You're half-tempted to elbow her awake, just to see how she reacts to the way her sleeping form's betrayed her, but you're not going to say no to a little extra warmth.

 

     You close your eyes, feeling Annie's breath rhythmically rush across your neck where your scarf's usually wrapped.

 

     You win.


End file.
